Post-Turkeypocalypse

Ambling sloth-like through the wasteland, breathing in a noxious haze of tryptophan and sickly sweet liquor, I plod past the pestilent pond of porcelain piled high in endless pillars, towards the puddles of putrid fat liquidized and pooling on the plates, once poured steaming over broken bones now dripping down the drain while the last vestiges of flesh hang threadbare off that osseous matter. Small hands have left their mark behind them, stained and sliding down the wall as if grasping for some invisible rungs to rescue them from wrath. Meanwhile, that gelatinous glob of congealed red mass continues to vellicate on the floor, a ceaseless tremor that suggests its sentience. Yet somehow, the empty glass and glasses have survived the slaughter mostly intact, only weathered and worn by overuse though now dirty, discarded and disheveled down among the grateful undead whose virile corpses litter the living room furniture until such time tomorrow that consumption might continue.

Buy My Poetry In This Month's Issue of ASIMOV'S Science Fiction Magazine!

My time travel love poem "I Loved You More Last Time" is now available in the February 2015 issue of ASIMOV'S Science Fiction Magazine (along with a poem by my Clarion classmate and recent winner of Apex Magazine's Story Of The Year, Marie Vibbert). 

As far as I can tell, Asimov's is erm, not very good at making online purchases easy for anyone. But you can pick up the current issue or subscribe on Kindle, Nook, and iTunes Newsstand (unfortunately, I don't know the exact cut-off date for when the current issue ceases to be "current," and I can't figure out how buy specific back issues either). I'll also have a small stash of hard copies available for direct purchase (more info to come).

"Always be drunk. That's it! The great imperative!"

It's National Poetry Month, so I wanted to share a little poem with all 3 of you loyal readers out there. I somehow had never encountered this poem until today, when someone posted it on the private Facebook group for my neighborhood pub, The Brendan Behan (yes, there's a private social group for pub regulars in addition to the standard FB page, and of course, a pub named for Brendan Behan would have a bunch of drunken literary fanatics). It's by a French writer named Charles Baudelaire, and while this translation might not be as remarkable for its use of language/imagery/poetic devices (I can't speak to it in French, although there is a picture of the original French below), I think it accurately sums up the artist's mind (by exploring and exploiting substance abuse and addiction, naturally, because art.)

And so, without further ado: "Get Drunk."

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

Meanwhile, if you want some more poetry, my good friend Brian McGackin has been sharing a new poem by a different poet for every day of the month over on his blog. And take it from me — his taste in poetry is at least as good if not better than his taste in friends.

1UP

Here's a little poem I wrote for my friends' wedding. I had the EMT-video game-heart metaphor early on (because it fits them), but it took me forever to actually nail the thing down. I tried so many different approaches, but I'm pretty happy with the final product (and more importantly, so were they!)

Domestic Terrorism In Brightly Packaged Haikus

I had bigger plans for this that I might revisit when not under deadline (I got back from NYC around 2am last night so UGH), but I was thinking about the idea of "selling fear" and, well, just kind of went with it for this week's Five By Five Hundred post. So here it is!

"Selling Fear" on FiveByFiveHundred.com

The Voice Of Our Generation

So, okay. Lena Dunham. That's all the Internet talks about anymore. And mostly for stupid reasons. GIRLS is an enjoyable show. Sure, it's got its flaws, but it always has some realistic depictions of a very particular group of people, all of whom I went to college with. But most of the debate around the show is -- in my humble opinion -- around all of the wrong issues (read: misogyny towards chubby exhibitionists). Let's face it, Lena Dunham is hardly the first privileged white kid to leverage Mom & Dad's wealth and success into her own career. I probably would have done the same thing, if I ever had the opportunity. And then there's Thought Catalog. I have plenty of friends who frequently for Thought Catalog, and almost every time I read something on that website (besides stuff by friends, obviously, because the whole point of this is that we're all hypocrites) I find myself consumed by anger towards the whiney narcissism of my generation. Every post is all trying to be deep and profound and whoa I made this brilliant realizations about being 22 now that I'm older and wiser at 24 and shut up.

Except that every time I read Thought Catalog, I'm like "Man, I totally get this. This is totally spot on." Which is probably why I'm so angry at it -- because it, like GIRLS, is totally cliched, and reminds us all of how cliched we are ourselves.

So, long story longer, this week's Five By Five Hundred post is all about that, except in some wacky stream-of-consciousness kind of a way (I mean, more than what I just wrote) because I have weird brain things.

(Also it now holds the record for our most popular post on 5x500! So, ya know, that's cool)

"A Catalog Of Thoughts; Or, Sorry Lena Dunham, But Our Generation Already Has A Voice" on FiveByFiveHundred.com

I Am Become Ernest Hemingway, Writer of Booze

Tearing through my parents' basement over Christmas break in search of several missing WARHAMMER pieces (shut up), I stumbled across a few notebooks from college. Still a bit high from the fun and hilarity of my MORTIFIED experience this past Saturday evening in Cambridge, I skimmed through the notebooks, placing certain moments back at specific times in my life. (there's certainly a lot crap, but a bunch of great lines / idea gems in between the crap that maybe someday I'll revisit in song) One thing in particular that stuck out to me -- pages I have been dying to rediscover since it happened -- was a bit of writing I did in July 2006, my first summer spent living in Boston between my sophomore and junior years. 2006 in general was definitely a very significant transition year for me, and while some of that anxiety might slip through here, that's not really the point. I remember the evening when I turned to my then-roommate, Layne, and said "Ya know, Layne, you hear about all these artists, songwriters, etc. with horrible, horrible addiction problems, but still somehow creating their best creative while completely obliterated. But I've never actually done that." So naturally Layne, being the kind and considerate soul she was, walked directly into the kitchen and poured me ten shots of vodka in a line. I looked down at the counter and looked back at her, eyes wide with fear. "Go," she demanded, and, well, I did, because Layne was just that kind of person that you could never down on, even when it was a terrible idea (because you knew that her worst ideas usually made the best stories).

So bam. 10 shots of vodka in a row, right down the hatch. No dinner. A quick chaser of Diet Coke, and I locked myself in the bedroom with a guitar and a notebook and a pen. I didn't even turn the lights on; it felt more poetic that way (whatever man, I was 20), and there was enough light bleeding in through the window from the construction site next door. And I just went, pouring out my every thought in some strange semblance of verse.

Eventually, I compiled some of these lines into a piece called "The Ballad of Gideon Stargrave," but the first time ever, here are my (mostly) unedited ramblings from that fateful drunken night:

I'm stuck somewhere between Myself and I

(And the lock keeps locking loudly when I'm sleeping late past 12)

In a city full of strangers Or a town that's full of ants I'm an albatross awaiting flight, a soldier's final dance before his life and pride are blown apart locked on target for his heart his pen's the only missile that he flies but he's still somewhere between himself and I

This section was titled "Don't Tell Mom & Dad That I Sold Out"

There's a letter in my drawer that I wrote when I was four with a crayon Though the wax is coming off and my handwriting is rough and my spelling hasn't bettered in years I think it says it all There's a flyer on my wall from the local rental hall where I booked shows when I was just 16 and we still sucked

But I've tried to find the words that best describe my frame of mind It's hanging from the mantlepiece, a mix of nails of twine. The string is strung out and nails are warped

WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN I MEAN I'M FINE, IT'S FINE WE'RE FINE WE'LL ALL BE ALRIGHT

Yes, I actually wrote that, scrawled across the page. I assume that I was disappointed with where my words were going -- though looking back, I may have been on to a cool idea with that whole motif of a literal physical frame my mind.

Maybe.

Anyway, it kept going:

Like a charm wearing thin Like a light shining in from the street because I can't afford electric bills. Like a fish drying out Like a boy in a drought of love Only love In a land of snakes and donkeys and the elephants that eat them towering above them like a lamb without his wool but he's offering his blessing to the boy out in the cold because he's given all that he can give he's left with just a face and though the girls can swear he's handsome it's just not to his taste without his arms, without a neck, without his feet, without a heart, he's more than alive and it's more than a start

Clearly I was going for some deep political themes here. I understand the symbolism of elephants and lambs and snakes and donkeys but....what the hell does that even mean?

I think it's the start of a beautiful day when the robots have all gone home and away The sunlight sneaks in through the blinds and tears through the crust that your allergies left on your eyes. The lids peel apart and just to find the calm of her back fast asleep within mine. Your lips part and stretch in a smile as you observer her warm chest rise and fall, rise and fall, to the side and you can't help but smile and sigh as her faint lips part to breathe your air, you long to taste their salty embrace and you long for just once to feel right

He gave me most of his mind He asked me to write To color his life But a poet is lost when his life is alright When the girls are in love When he sleeps through the night

There will be bells and trumpets and choirs that sing to the world when I fall in love There will be wars Once hot but frozen Both hands will shake When I am in love And there will be clouds that will bring in the rain but in moments so precious our lips must stay moist and there will be boys who discover their parents discover their future when i fall in love and there will be grass where dirt resides barren without so much a flower or lone daffodil because the last dandelion that I will become will someday fall in love when he someday breathe his rest

There's another way to find ourselves in love There's another way to find a man within these every walls.

Later I'll be sure to post photos of each of the pages, so you can see how hilariously my handwriting devolved as the night went on.

Naturally the next day I awoke with the sun (because I passed out before I remembered to pull the blinds down), wearing all my clothes and cuddling with my guitar. Surprisingly, I still seem to remember at least a few of the melodies and riffs for the music I wrote during this session...

College was fun.

Another Oldie But A Goodie (angsty?)

Not much time to write again today*, after a busy weekend at New York Comic Con that didn't get me back to Boston until midnight, so here's a re-post of an old poem/song I wrote in...I think 2005. Looking back, it's definitely the product of a 19-year-old, but don't think it was necessarily awful, as far as the poetry of 19-year-old Liberal Arts students is concerned. Check back next week for something new!

"Atlantic Avenue" at FiveByFiveHundred.com

*not that I haven't been writing anything at all in the last week, which I have actually quite a lot, but nothing that would be appropriate for 5x500 in either form or content. more articles and/or long form works-in-progress.

Pretentious Poetic Firefly References

Not much time to write for FiveByFiveHundred.com today, as we had a big fancy Open House at the Huntington (stupid having to work on holidays* grrrrr). So instead, I've re-posted a poem that I wrote about 4 years ago or so, about romance, assholes, and Firefly. Because really, what else is there to talk about?

"Mal Means Bad (in the Latin)" on Five By Five Hundred

*All personal moral dilemma with Columbus Day aside.

Greatest Time Signature EVER!

My newest piece is now live  on Five By Five Hundred, a playful little poem about my favorite musical time signature. All you math and music nerds out there should have some fun seeking out all the little patterns that are hidden in this one, just like a good song...

"I Wish I Lived In 5/4 Time" at FiveByFiveHundred.com

Five By Five Hundred: Back In Action

After a brief summer hiatus for some professional and mental recuperation, Five By Five Hundred is now officially back in action! For those of you who somehow managed to find your way here and yet still have no idea what I'm talking about, Five By Five Hundred is a website started by back in April of 2009 by me and my good friend Brian McGackin (of Broetry fame), inspired by an idea from the Internet Jesus Warren Ellis. The website originally featured 5 writers, each of whom composed poetry/prose/whatever consisting of no more than 500 words on his/her assigned day of the week (hence, 5 writers x 5 days a week x 500 words = 5x500 = totally bad pun on Faith Lehane's catchphrase). The website has gone through a number of writers, with Brian and I remaining consistent since the beginning, and has now expanded to include new posts on Saturdays and Sundays as well (which, with 7 writers, technically screws up the whole 5x500 pattern thingie, but oh well). Anyway, now that you're all caught up, you can go check out my latest post over there, an oldie but a goodie titled Dad's Diaries (and you can listen to it here, too!)

"Dad's Diaries" at FiveByFiveHundred.com

Quite Possibly The Greatest Ever Thing Known To Man

My new post on Five By Five Hundred could very well be the greatest thing ever known to man. Check it out:

"When the toxic heat of summer irradiates the sky, violating our lewd and turgid flesh and turning each crevice into a squalid pit of filth and discomfort that lies desperately chafed along the airy edge of freedom, there can be but one respite to its endless cosmic pain:" on FiveByFiveHundred.com

Clothes Make the Fan

This has often been on my mind, but the specific inspiration for this piece goes back to the preview screening of THE AVENGERS that I attended. Naturally, there were a lot of people in the audience wearing comic book t-shirts. Because it was a preview screening for an epic comic book movie, and comic book fans (unsurprisingly) enjoy comic book movies (although I suppose "enjoy" can be argued...) and are also the type of people who would seek out passes for a preview screening and stand in line for 2 hours just for a chance to see the movie 3 days before its release. You know. People like me.

But in any large gathering of comic book fans (more than most other subcultures), I tend to notice a lot of awkward compliments. Kid in the Fantastic Four t-shirt sees kid in the Spider-Man t-shirt while we're all waiting in line to go to the bathroom, and of course, he has to go up to him and say "Hey. Cool shirt," as if he's somehow surprised to see that someone else here likes comic books (or that somehow, someone else besides him has heard of the Amazing Spider-Man!). I don't mean to be a miserable cynic — I'm glad that people can find those social connections, because it is both comforting, and important — I just find it odd. It's like going up to someone wearing a Red Sox t-shirt at a Red Sox game and saying "Oh hey man, you like Red Sox, too? I love the Red Sox!" Well yes of course you're at a fucking Red Sox game.

But I digress.

"Cool Shirt, Dude" on FiveByFiveHundred.com

Lá Fhéile Pádraig!

[soundcloud url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/12036874" iframe="true" /] Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I love being Irish. I hold a great deal of pride in the culture, a feeling ingrained in me by my father since a very young age. We also know, of course, that I do enjoy drinking (as if the homebrewing section of my website weren't enough of an indicator). That being said, St. Paddy's Day (and that's "Paddy" for Pádraig, mind you. "Patty" is a girl's name, or what you might call a hamburger) inspires some conflicting feelings within me. I love the celebration of my heritage, and the recognition that it brings to such a unique and fascinating culture. But I find myself being constantly aggravated at the Plastic Paddies and rampant racism that accompanies the holiday. Sure, I plan on heading over to the pub on the 17th to enjoy a few pints, but that's not all there is. I plan on taking in a few Irish seisiuns, enjoying the music and the culture of Ireland, in addition to the drink. Too many people are happy to diminish the accomplishments of the Irish people and reduce us to alcoholic slobs. And while a great many of us do take to the drink — as well as there are many who actually suffer from alcoholism, which is far from humorous — there's much more about the Irish to celebrate. Unfortunately, most complaints about the depiction of Irish stereotypes in American culture are quickly brushed aside as essentially "white people problems." Despite the fact the Irish are generally an accepted — and celebrated — culture in modern day America (especially in Boston!), many seem to forget the years of struggle that our ancestors went through. Sure, it hasn't much affected me directly — no one's ever called me a "white nigger," or pointed to a sign saying "No Irish Need Apply" — but it affected my family, and thus, it's had affect on how I grew up and who I am today.

This week's post on Five By Five Hundred is brought to you by Brian Boru, Flann O'Brien, James Joyce, Fionn MacCumhaill, Brendan Behan, Samuel Beckett, Cuchulain, Maewyn Succa, and all of the other bright and brilliant faces of Irish culture that have had a positive impact worldwide.

"Nina Never Loved Me" on FiveByFiveHundred.com

(also, while you're at it, I suggest you check out The Shore, the newest Oscar-winning short film by Terry George)

Who Watches Alan Moore?

Alan Moore has a reputation. Besides being crazy, he's also famously curmudgeonly. If there's a problem with my grammar and use of adverb in the preceding sentence, then, well, Alan Moore can cast some crazy black magic spell on me. I don't really care. There's been a lot of news and opinions spewed forth around the internet regarding the recently announced Before Watchmen from DC Comics, a collection of prequel miniseries based on Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons' universally acclaimed Watchmen. When it all comes down, Moore may have been screwed (multiple times) in the past, but DC currently has every legal right to make this happen, and, well, comics have a history of picking up from someone else's characters and making a run for it.

But that's neither here nor there. This post is just to tell you to check out my latest post on Five By Five Hundred, which was inspired by a comment made by Alan Moore in the video embedded below (which, fair warning, is a two-and-a-half hour long interview in which he is not surprisingly verbose and curmudgeonly and also crazy black magic wizard plus beard).

"Adventure Capitalism" on FiveByFiveHundred.com

[vimeo http://www.vimeo.com/36211102 w=450&h=264]

High Infidelity

In doing research for an article I'm working on for Quirk Books, I pulled out my personal copy of High Fidelity (the novel) by Nick Horny. And what do I find inside?

Handwritten song lyrics. Except, it's not my handwriting. And I'm pretty sure I've never lent this book out to anyone to borrow. Eerie, right? And yet, kind of poetic.

So obviously, I laid claim to it (despite the fact that it's, erm, not very good), and turned into a found poem for Five By Five Hundred (which also worked out well because it's been a busy few days, between taking my poor chinchilla to the hospital with a broken arm, and sitting on the "Tweet This?" panel for Arts In America).

"Sonic Death Monkey" at FiveByFiveHundred.com

In the News!

It's a good week for being me! I opened up a print copy (on newsprint! Gets on your hands!) of Boston's Weekly Dig, only to find that they reprinted my tweet to them about my Haiku Beer Reviews from last week's Beer Summit (for which I had tickets from the Dig), and they even printed one of the haikus (for ZOMBIE KILLER Meade from B.Nektar) in their pages. This marks the second time that the Dig has printed one of my silly poems (the last time being in October, 2010 in their "Oh, Cruel World!" column, wherein I expressed my violent rage about a bicycle accident in verse) which all just makes me think that they should give me a job as "Official Writer of Silly Verse" or something. Vagabond Theatre Group, who is the producing the upcoming reading of my play True Believers, posted a lovely and thoughtful blogpost about my play, and the trend (or lack thereof) of comic book-related stories in theatre. It's a brief but flattering piece, that you should check out if you have the chance!

Coming up: even more news that I can't quite officially announce yet. Hollerr.

Haiku Beer Review: The Third!

Continuing in my established tradition from the Mass Brewer's Fest and last year's Winter Beer Jubilee, I present for you the latest installment of Haiku Beer Review, compiled at the 2012 Winter Beer Summit. I make tasting notes into my phone as the night goes on, so that I can turn them into haikus when I get home (and eventually sober up). I know, I know, I'm a genius, it's true. Anyway, enjoy! (Also, thanks to Dig Boston for the free tickets and for putting up with my whining. #thomdunnwantsbeer)

"Haiku Beer Review #3: Winter Beer Summit 2012" on FiveByFiveHundred.com